


Tension

by shippingslash



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre slash frustration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-13 04:20:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4507521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shippingslash/pseuds/shippingslash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So close...yet so far away.  Just one of them needs to make the first move.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tension

John's hair is damp from the shower, he ducks underneath the swaying shop dummy and settles down on his chair with the paper. He flicks the paper, making the seam rigid enough for him to read without the article slowly slouching into obscurity. 'Talk him to him for a really long time?' John mutters, glancing at the noose around the mannequin's neck. He doesn't really focus on Sherrlock's explanation about Bow Street runners not paying attention...what he focuses on is the need tugging in his solar plexus. How much more obvious can he be? What does the self proclaimed sociopath need? A written bloody invitation? 

...

Sherlock nervously eyes the back of John's head. Frantically checking his Mind Palace's cupboard on courting rituals. Showered, clean, didn't masterbate...well to completion anyway...naked under his dressing gown, towel 'casually' thrown over shoulder to suggest...what? Nonchalance? Reading paper with feigned interest, saw him reading that page an hour and seventeen minutes ago...is this...does John... Sherlock gazes down the microscope, seeing nothing, a fog of arousal mixed with anxiety clouding his vision. 

...

John pushes his head back against the squashy arm chair's cushioning. He closes his eyes and inhales slowly. He imagines he can smell the sexual tension in the flat, imagines that if he opened his eyes he would see the pheromones swirling in the sunlight filtering through the windows. He feels his cock stir in anticipation, hoping that one of them, please God, would finally have the balls to make a move,

...

Frozen, the world's only consulting detective reprimands himself. Time is running out. If he's going to make a move...ever...it needs to be now. Crippled by self doubt and inexperience his body appears to be petrified. Rigid as a graveyard angel he feels rooted to the stool. The moment has passed. Again. With abrupt, cut off breaths he steels himself. Too much to risk. Too much to lose. There will be another chance he promises himself.


End file.
